


Easy

by RiaTheDreamer



Series: S15 Missing Scenes [5]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Child Neglect, Grif has abandonment issues, Loss of Sanity, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 14:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12483596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Grif wishes the descent into insanity would be quicker. Even if time is all he has left now.





	Easy

He didn’t know silence has a sound. He knows now. He’s a quick learner. Silence has more than one sound, it turns out.

It’s the sound of a single pair of footsteps echoing down the halls, walking around aimlessly because there’s no one to wake up. It’s the sound of muffled gasps into the pillow after another goddam nightmare because the quiet has a tendency to bring back memories of blood and too still teammates. It’s the sound of restless fingers strumming against untuned instruments because there is no one left to give a shit.

Grif looks at the sky, sometimes, and sun blinds him, and he lowers his stare and kicks the sand and walks back inside.

Time stands still but the sun moves up and down, swallowed by the sea only to rise the next morning, and Grif thinks of Blood Gulch and the sun that never moved. Weird, huh. At least that sun was warm there, stuck between the canyon walls. It’s cold here, now, and he steals blankets during the night. They’re his now and no one disagrees.

Nightly snack raids are easy, too easy, until fridge stops being a comfort and starts being a worry. Old habits kick in – no, Kai, that one is for tomorrow – and he takes stock of what is left, and his future is laid out on the floor in front of him, measured by the amount of ration bars and strange fungi and too familiar MRE’s.

The ones with artificial tomato sauce are Simmons’ favorites, and he stores them in the corner for ~~if~~ when they return.

He looks up, the sky is blue and clear, and he trips over a bag of trash that is torn open and spills its insides across the ground. Grif is kneeling among the litter, and it stains him, his armor and his fingers. He washes his hands, twice, and one more time to be safe. He disposes the trash and is pleased with the results. Stains and smell linger so he finds the chemicals in the locker, and he cleans until his hands are raw and sore.

He pours the dirty water in the sea and catches a sight his own muddled reflection, blurred and skewed.

There are ghosts in the ruins Donut’s fire left behind. They come out at night, circling closer to the base. Grif is in his bed, staring at the ceiling, when he hears the whispers.

_                                     fatass                                                               selfish                                                              worthless  
                                                                        dirtbag                                                             weakest link _

He walks down the hallway, opening all the doors and calls out in reply.

The voices die when morning comes, and Grif grabs the guitar, plucks a string, and hears the sound echo.

The sky is blue. One day it turns grey and weeps. Another day there are clouds, drifting by for his amusement. There’s a puma. There’s a warthog. They dissolve while he stares.

His neck hurts from the strain. Donut isn’t there to offer a massage, so Grif rolls his head and listens to his bones pop and crack. It echoes. Doesn’t it?

                      _do you_  
                                           Grif looks up from his meals, stops chewing.  
                                                                                                                                    _do you ever_

He narrows his eyes, waits until he is sure.

_do you ever wonder why_

He replies, voice hoarse, and it feels good to be talking again.

The sky is clear.

The nights are easier now. The darkness is thicker but the whispers are louder. He is yet to locate the source. He knows the voices, though.

Grif listens.

_you could've left whenever you wanted. No one would have stopped ya_

They wouldn’t. They didn’t. He wishes they had.

Sarge had told him he could quit at any time. True. They never talked about the consequences. Did they know? Grif didn’t. He knows now. Regret is bitter like that.

He wonders where the others are. Maybe they are done with their mission. Maybe they are dead. Maybe they wonder what he’s doing. Right now. But he doubts it.

He isn’t like Simmons whose dad would hit him if he got a _B_. No one cared enough hit Grif when he came home with an _F_. Sometimes he wishes they had, and he knows he will burn in hell for that thought, but he earned his place down there a long time ago. _F_ and _F_ because Grif is a failure and no one expects anything else because they don’t expect anything from him and Grif doesn’t expect anything else because he has settled with the failure. Problem is people don’t stick with failure. Maybe if Grif wasn’t a failure they would not have left.

Grif is a failure. An _F_. No, even worse.

He is _GRIF, DEXTER, PRIVATE, RED ARMY_ with the letters engraved into the cold metal of the unwanted dog tags he hopes someone will find one day and hand to his sister.

_i just wish that grif was dead_

Does singing count as pillow talk?

Grif is humming now, walking down spotless hallways. ~~When~~ If his ~~friends~~ former teammates ~~could~~ would return they’d be ~~very~~ somewhat ~~happy~~ satisfied with his work. But they don’t. The sky is clear.

The whispers have stopped lurking in the corners of the base. They’re inside his head now, all the way in the back.

But it’s okay. He’s okay. In fact, he’s better. He’s awesome, chilling, he’s enjoying his retirement, and everything is as it should be, and he’s lonely, just a bit, but it’s okay and it’s not as quiet anymore, he just need the whispers to become louder, louder, and haveyouseenhowcleartheskyis-

Grif trips.

He reaches out to steady himself, and a cabinet opens. The volleyballs fall out. _Thump, thump_ , until the last ball rolls into his awaiting embrace. His mouth is numb. The base isn’t quiet.

There are things

~~hands running through his hair, jerking when metal joints get stuck, soft lips pressed against his ear, moaning, an endless stream of grif grif grif oh grif, and it’s hot, sweaty body pressed together, the metal parts as cold as the kisses, and he’s shivering, a million raindrops hitting his skin with each caress, the skin is alive and tingling and burning, oh so hot in here, and hands grasping and holding, simmons simmons i~~

not to talk about.

And it’s easy not to talk about it when there’s no one there to talk to.

But Grif’s hands are covered with glue and paint and the aluminum keeps sticking to his fingers but he is so close now. He’s been trying for a while now, to deal with the silence, to be happy, to let go.

_Do you ever wonder why-_

“We’re here,” Simmons lets him know and comes to life in his hands. The gang joins him a moment later. The base isn’t quiet. The others talk, sharply, but loudly. Grif answers and grins.

 

 

 

It’s that easy.

**Author's Note:**

> “ _Easy, easy_  
>  _Pull out your heart to make the_  
>  _Being alone_  
>  _Easy_ ”  
> \- Son Lux, “Easy”
> 
> Uhm, this started a writing exercise, and then I got inspired by my stylistic classes and then I sorta lost track but I ended up liking the final version and figured I might as well post it. I had fun. You know me. I love the angst.


End file.
